


Locking Up the Sun

by CaptainOzone



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Super Sons (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bat Family, Bat bros, Everyone has magic, Gen, Magic, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Or is a creature/half-creature of some sort, Prompt Fic, Talia is not a good person, Temporary Amnesia, Tumblr Prompt, Worldbuilding, inspired by ATLA and Brandon Sanderson, lots of villain cameos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-27 03:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21112169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainOzone/pseuds/CaptainOzone
Summary: “Wait until I tell your brothers that you finally broke through your mother’s Shadeweaving because ababy dragonwas at risk.”“Don’t you dare,” Damian snaps without thinking.He’d never live it down.





	Locking Up the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> "Can you make a prompt with Robin & Superboy returning a dragon egg back to it's nest? The Robin and Superboy here can be Damian & Jonathan or Tim & Conner." -happyhoganon, a lovely anon on Tumblr
> 
> Let the record show I am terrible at prompts. Terrible.
> 
> When I first saw this prompt, I thought “Okay, Netflix’s The Dragon Prince mashed up with Robin and Superboy? Sounds cute. I dig it, I can totally do that.”
> 
> And then I proceeded to _not_ do that.
> 
> Prompts are meant to be suggestions anyway, right? 😆
> 
> Happyhoganon, I admit I didn't quiiiiite answer the prompt to completion (or at least, not in any way you probably expected me to), but here's 11,000+ words of me attempting to. 
> 
> Please enjoy!
> 
> (Title inspired by a song of the same title by Poets of the Fall)

“Apologies, Young Lord.”

Damian raises his gaze languidly from where he lounges. Two Shadeweavers of the Wall Guard, as indicated by the insignia on their scabbards, hesitate in the doorway to his royal chambers, their heads bowed in deference. Between them, a cage of shadows writhes. Damian can see a single limp form within. Of Sola, of Umbris, he cannot tell. All he sees are the singed clothes the prisoner wears, their dark hair matted with soot and filth.

_How drab, _Damian thinks, returning his attention to his light meal. It has been a long day spent in Grandfather’s council chambers. One would think planning for a raid would be an exciting endeavor. As it happens, Damian can’t recall most of the discussion. He doubts it had anything to do with him.

All in all, he could do with something a little more entertaining than...whatever this is.

“Why do you apologize?” Damian asks in a careless tone. He pops a likinberry into his mouth and resists the urge to rub his forehead. There’s a familiar pressure building between his eyes. He has not slept in some time, and the council meeting today was most tedious. “I have no use for apologies, should you have done nothing wrong.” His gaze flicks back to the two Shadeweavers. The shadows at his own command shiver and slink about his shoulders and chair, down the length of his arms and between his fingers. “Have you done wrong?”

The Guard who initially spoke clears his throat, awkward and stiff, but the other is unphased. He does, however, avoid direct eye contact—a weakness Damian immediately notes.

“No, Young Lord,” the second Guard says in his partner’s place, voice cloying. Damian finds he does not like it. A distant sense of disapproval and a much sharper flash of irritation causes his frown to deepen. “We do not wish to interrupt, but—” He pushes the caged prisoner forward. “—we found this one where he should not have been. It appears he was attempting to infiltrate the compound.”

“And?” He stares the Guards down, waiting to hear an explanation as to why it is _he _should care. He is the Prince of Demons. He is above such things as common criminals and thieves in the night.

“He nearly succeeded.”

Damian’s interest piques. Marginally. “I see.”

The Guards bow their heads again when Damian rises to his feet. His shadows follow, weaving between his legs. With a single flap of his hand, he commands the underlings to approach.

In unison, the Guards step forward, their prisoner suspended between them. The intruder’s knees drag across the floor, but he is unaffected, head lolling. There is a large slash across his forehead, dried blood caked across his temple and down his neck. He is remarkably young, Damian notes detachedly. Two or three years his junior, perhaps.

_A child_.

The wound on the intruder’s head still seeps, and Damian’s teeth ache with a sudden, bone-deep cold. The pain radiates up his jaw and feeds into his migraine. He hides his discomfort and sucks his teeth, a _tt _sound escaping his lips.

The prisoner is not as unconscious as he seems. He looks up at the sound, and bright blue eyes latch onto Damian’s, burning like stars.

_I know him_.

Pain lances through Damian’s brow the very second the thought enters him mind, and the clarity of his recognition dissolves in a haze. He’s left in the wake of his shattered surety, feeling sick to his stomach, internally unsteady.

He is mistaken. He must be. He knows nothing of this boy. How could he? A Prince of Umbris? The Grandson of the Demon’s Head? Know..._this_? Whatever _this _is?

It’s laughable.

He feels a fool for his reaction. And nothing makes him angrier than feeling a fool.

Damian snarls, lips pulling over his teeth, and his eyes blaze with green demonfire as he lowers himself to peer into the face of the boy. The boy stares back without fear. His gaze is clear, focused.

_Not as injured as he seems, _Damian realizes, suspicion growing.

“Sundancer,” he hisses, and he’s rewarded with a reaction from the boy, a slight widening of his eyes.

Taking that as confirmation, Damian draws upon his shadows. The tendrils sharpen and slip through the weaker Shadeweavers’ cage like butter, racing toward the boy and coming to halt within a hairsbreadth of his throat.

And still the boy does not speak, does not flinch. He continues to meet Damian’s eyes without blinking.

Damian would be impressed—or perhaps, at the very least, feel a modicum of grudging respect—had he not also been decidedly irritated that this boy seems to have no inkling of who he is dealing with.

To the Guards, Damian sighs. “Imbeciles.” A lone tendril sneaks around to the shackles binding the intruder’s wrists. With a short command, Damian etches a rune into the metal. “You are lucky he didn’t incinerate us all.”

The two Guards cringe at his tone, at the apathy there. Apathy, in the House of al Ghul, is known to be as dangerous as anger. They will be punished for their oversight. Damian will ensure it.

“Now,” Damian says ponderingly. His Conjured weapons rest against the skin of the boy’s throat. “I’d be most curious to learn what it is a Sundancer faeling of Sola is doing in Umbris, attempting to infiltrate the holding of Ra’s al Ghul.”

The boy doesn’t respond. He levels his chin, and Damian cannot read him. The shadows at his side snake their way along his shoulders, sensing his agitation. When the silence stretches for longer than Damian can tolerate, he presses forward. His shadow daggers dig into the intruder’s flesh, on the cusp of drawing blood. With the rune Damian drew, the Sundancer will not heal as quickly from injury this time.

Damian sees the pulse quicken under the boy’s skin. His throat is dry.

“You know what I am,” Damian growls, a hint of a threat in his voice. “What I can do.”

That elicits a response. “I do,” the boy says quietly.

Damian senses, somehow, there is something more than is being implied in those two words. He doesn’t have any desire to dissect what it may mean, and he ignores how his gut flips, how the light in the room shudders in his vision, blurring and distorting. He blinks, and everything returns to normal.

A figment of his imagination. Mother tells him he has an overactive one.

It is never a compliment.

“You know I can _force _you to tell me,” Damian says.

“You won’t.”

Damian’s eyes narrow, and the boy cannot hide a wince. He purses his lips, and it seems to Damian as though he’s said too much, as though he believes sealing his mouth will prevent him from saying anything more.

How _dare _he? Damian wonders, and his temper flares, overpowering his surprise. How dare he _presume?_

(But most importantly...how dare he presume with such _certainty_?)

It’s been awhile since Damian’s met someone willing to challenge him. To engage him. It’s been...How long?

_Too long_.

“_Insolence_,” one of the Shadeweaver Guards hisses. His clawed hand emerges from his cloak sleeve, fingers flexing. The magicked cage fluctuates, shrinking in on itself. An unnatural gray hue overtakes the Sundancer boy’s skin, and his lips begin to crack and bleed. “That,” the Guard hisses to him, “is no way to speak to—”

Damian reacts without thinking, and the hand in command of the shadow daggers at their intruder’s throat flings toward the Guard. They fly across the room, conglomerating midair to form a sabre.

Which Damian uses to impale the Guard straight through the stomach.

The cage holding the prisoner slackens, the shadows retreating and breaking. The boy within coughs, expelling wisps of smoke, and inhales an unsteady, rattling breath. And then another.

He _breathes_.

_Damian_ breathes_. _

“And that,” Damian says to the impaled Guard as he gasps wordlessly, slumping to his knees, hands fluttering around his gaping wound. Damian’s words do not feel like his own, rehearsed to the point of absurdity, “is no way to act in _my _chambers with _my _prisoners.”

The Guard topples, his form dissolving into snakes and snarls of shadow. He will reform sooner or later, but as Damian understands it, it is a painful process for lesser demons, even if Grandfather allows the use of his Lazarus Pits.

Mother will not be pleased. Shadeweavers, regardless of power, are regarded as indispensable.

Wh_oo_ps.

The other Guard continues to hold the cage, though his lesser abilities make it difficult without his partner’s assistance. Perspiration beads at his forehead as the cage begins to dissolve further. “...Your prisoner, Young Lord?” the Guard dares to ask. “I thought...”

“You are not asked to _think_,” Damian says. He sweeps aside the Guard’s shadow cage with a single motion and forms one of his own.

Free of his burden, the Guard hisses in relief and turns a disdainful look at the prisoner. “What will you do with him, Young Lord?”

“I will keep him, of course,” Damian says on a whim. He revels in the bemused look on the Guard’s face before returning to his dining table. This whole situation has left him feeling more famished than he’d been earlier, when he first returned from Grandfather’s council chambers.

The Guard’s lips curl, serpentine nose wrinkling. “Young Lord...this boy nearly took out a whole tower.”

“Point being?” Damian asks, sitting on the edge of his table and hunting around his bowl for another likinberry.

“He is dangerous.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“He is the enemy.”

Damian rolls his eyes. “_Everyone_ is the enemy.” He seems to have eaten all his berries. Shame. He settles for a grainy roll and tears into it with relish. “Tell me something,” he requests after swallowing a large bite. “You said ‘nearly’ just now. What do you mean by ‘nearly?’”

“There were a few explosions involved, Young Lord.”

Damian pauses. Takes a deep breath in and out. His head pounds. “Are you telling me,” he says slowly, setting his roll aside, “that this boy, alone, without reinforcements and without any additional weapons, merely set off a few explosions?”

“‘_Merely_,’ Young Lord?” the Guard blubbers. “I—”

“Answer the question.”

“...Yes, I suppose that is true.”

“And I suppose he just brazenly walked out of the smoke once he found himself caught, hands held aloft?”

“I—” The Guard hesitates. “Yes.”

The boy is hiding a smirk. Damian can see it.

“Was anyone hurt?”

“No.”

“Is the tower still operational?”

“...Yes, Young Lord.”

Damian’s pointed silence ends up intimidating the Guard more so than any question he could pose. The Guard licks his thin lips and takes a step forward. “There was some structural damage, Young Lord. Perhaps,” he says, “we should make an example of—”

“Perhaps _you_ should cease questioning me,” Damian snaps. He is back on his feet. “I don’t care exactly what he’s done. Why should I? Look at him. Do you see his face?” The boy does a poor job of composing himself now that their attention is back on him, a faux-serious expression on his face. “It was a _prank. _And _you, _I am coming to understand, were caught unawares. And not only that, but you have also overreacted. We are at war, yes, but considering how many petty skirmishes and self-appointed _heroes_ we’ve seen near the Wall over the last few cycles, would you truly have me tell my grandfather and mother how a boy—albeit a Sundancer boy—_nearly _overpowered the forces of an entire tower during what was clearly. A. _Prank_?”

The Guard, wisely, does not say anything more, though he clearly does not approve and has plenty more to say.

“And not that I need to explain myself to you,” Damian adds with an arrogant sniff. “But I want him. I am in need of a new servant, after all.” The last few had been quite unfit for the role. They did not last long. Lesser beings of Umbris could be poor companions, especially when...compelled by his mother to serve as slaves. Those of Sola weren’t much better. Regardless of origin, they all seemed to lose common sense when under the thrall of a Shadeweaver of Mother’s caliber.

Needless to say, it’s about time Damian chose his own. There’s something about this Sundancer. Damian will enjoy putting him in his place. The challenge of doing so without his magic to ease the process is enticing. <strike></strike>

“Are you _serious?_”

Damian turns and raises an eyebrow at the boy, whose composure has finally cracked beyond repair. There’s an odd exasperation in his voice, and it...Huh. That’s interesting. It is amusing. Damian can’t remember the last time he’d been so genuinely amused. His gut instinct to keep the Sundancer is already proving itself to be a positive thing.

“Would you rather I killed you?” Damian asks, blunt. “Or handed you off to my mother or grandfather, like this Guard so dearly desires?”

“Not really,” the boy says, “But I’m...confused.”

The Guard gives the boy a pitying, then disgusted, look, and Damian feels his lips split into a smile. It’s almost foreign, but somehow, it feels right. “You won’t be for much longer.”

* * *

Mother tells him the world is his to command. Grandfather parades him around and smiles without teeth, proclaiming Damian his blood. They both boast of his prowess with his magic and of his talent on the training fields. They praise him for his contributions to the family, to the name al Ghul.

He bears it all, behaves as they expect him to, and wonders why he feels nothing. He should feel something, shouldn’t he? Pride? Belonging? Loyalty? _Something_?

He wonders why instead the weight bearing down on his conscience gets heavier and heavier. 

Why he feels he’s done nothing to deserve any of it.

(And why, despite all appearances and evidence to the contrary, he doesn’t necessarily _want _to).

Something isn’t right.

* * *

Damian’s food has long since turned to ash in his mouth. It sits like a rock in his stomach, and even though he plays with what remains on his plate, he cannot handle another bite.

He aches with a different hunger now.

Damian has yet to release the boy from his magic confines. Now that they are alone, Damian has the opportunity to watch him. To think. The boy, for his part, seems to do the same, the boredom on his face conflicting with the intelligence in his eyes.

In the silence that follows, Damian comes to realize that the boy isn’t what he appears. He does not possess a surplus of bravado, as Damian originally thought: he is truly and wholly _unafraid_ of Damian, of the situation he finds himself in.

And Damian...Damian does not understand. He doesn’t understand why this boy would risk so much. Why he would allow his foolery to escalate so far. And, yes, Damian knows, somehow, the boy _allowed _this to happen, for Sundancers’ magic does not often agree with Shadeweavers’. He could have fought back. He could have escaped. He could have enacted some serious damage. Instead, he drew attention to himself, took a blow to the head, and exhibited no fear when brought to the grandson of the Demon’s Head directly. _Why?_

“Why did you do it?” Damian asks aloud. “What do you have to gain?”

“Why do _you_ think I did it?” the boy retorts.

A number of reasons rushes to Damian’s mind. The boy could be a spy for that blasted Resistance, though Damian doubts it. Their leaders are far more deliberate and intelligent than this. They would never approve such an inane plan.

He disregards the idea.

Damian supposes his first idea is most likely: that the boy may have friends who dared him to try. Perhaps he has nowhere to go and nothing better to do. Perhaps he merely wanted to see how far he could get, see what he could get away with, just out of morbid curiosity’s sake.

In the end, each and every reason he comes up with is completely moronic. The people and beings of Umbris and Sola may have been at war for generations upon generations and many may have become complacent, but it is still _war, _and it is war made all the bloodier by the ongoing rivalry between Ra’s al Ghul, the Elite, and the Resistance.

No sane person would go so far for a prank as this boy did.

So _why_? Surely this boy wouldn’t be _so stupid _as to—

The pressure in Damian’s head builds to another climax, shooting pain through his skull. It feels as though his head is being caved in from the inside. He succumbs without intending to and presses his fingers to his brow, a sharp hiss escaping through his teeth.

The boy is staring, and Damian ignores him, waving his hand. His magic dissipates, and the boy settles his weight on his feet again, free of the shadows holding him aloft. His hands are still shackled before him.

“Are you alright?” comes a tentative question from the boy.

Damian barks a dark laugh. He doesn’t think he’s been alright in awhile. The headaches are only getting worse, and currently, he can’t _think, _much less answer that question. “You are an _idiot_, Jon,” he snaps testily.

The words slip past his lips, their shape and tone so strong in their familiarity Damian doesn’t think anything of them, until the pain reduces to tolerable levels and he notices the odd look on Jon’s face.

“_What_, Sundancer?”

“I...never told you my name,” Jon says slowly.

Damian frowns, leaning back in his chair. He fixates his eyes on the ceiling. It is smooth and flawless dark marble, as is most of the castle. Hundreds of the world’s finest Earthwelders crafted the building centuries ago, tailoring to Ra’s al Ghul’s taste for perfection.

Damian realizes he’s forgotten a lot of the castle’s history. He...used to know. Didn’t he? It was expected of him as Prince.

The longer he stares, the more the uniformity in the straight and rigid lines of his chambers feels alien, unnatural.

At that moment, he doesn’t _fit _in those lines. And that is a _treacherous_ thought, one that frightens him in a visceral and alarming way. Damian tears his gaze from the perfect ceiling, shuddering and forcing away the sensation.

_I’m an al Ghul_, he tells himself. _I’m a Prince_.

His word is law; his whims, nonnegotiable. He is superior to all those who oppose him and most certainly superior to this little Sundancer. Damian shouldn’t be wasting his time with him. He _should_ be coercing information from the boy’s mind, questioning him to the point of breaking. Maybe he should have done as the Guard thought he would. Perhaps he should have taken control, bent his loyalties and preyed on his darkest fears, rendered him incapable of further free will.

His recent acquisition, in turn, should be cowering at his feet at this very moment, demanding to know what is going to happen to him. He should be crying and promising he’d never do anything like this again, he’s an idiot, it wasn’t meant to happen like this, I meant to get away, let me go let me go _let me go_.

But it’s not as it should be.

And perhaps that is why Damian cannot prevent his voice from faltering when he tries to ask, in as petulant of a tone as he can muster, “Didn’t you?”

* * *

Time has become as sand through a sieve. It slips by without notice, and when Damian has presence of mind to note its path, it moves fluidly around him in fits and spurts. Tomorrow is today, and yesterday is tomorrow. One moment he is here. Another, he is there. He feels as though most of his life is happening when he isn’t aware of it—in between moments of clarity, in the blur of motion and amongst the shades of his magic.

Jon is there, sometimes. His mother and grandfather, Damian sees only sparingly and often from a distance.

(He hasn’t made a habit of keeping track).

Something isn’t_ right_.

* * *

Damian Senses her before he hears her.

His new servant doesn’t have time to utter more than a short yelp before Damian has pushed him behind the heavy basilisk skin tapestries hanging on the corridor walls. The shadows cast from the sconces on the wall remain in place, as does the heavy darkness amongst the decorative folds of fabric adorning the walls.

Mother will know if they are altered or fabricated. Her power far surpasses his own. She always knows.

She has a habit, however, of overlooking the mundane.

His expression is blank when Mother turns the corner with her entourage of Guards. It does not match the odd gallop of his heartbeat.

She is dressed in her usual leathers, bristling with weapons, some of which are of her own design. Others were forged by Earthwelders of Umbris, their blades dark as night. Shadows don’t move with her so much as they are _part _of her, as is her birthright. Beside her, Damian always feels lesser, inferior. Her magic is intoxicating, her presence undeniable. When she is there, some ugly part of him almost loathes his sperm-donor, for it is he whose weaker blood diluted his own. Without him, her full power—Grandfather’s power—would be his to command.

That part of him wishes it were so.

_Wrong, _the other part of him whispers._ Wrong. _

She stops before him. His skin crawls, even as he aches to be near.

“Mother,” he greets.

“My son,” she responds, red lips curving into a smile. Her tone is warm. Warmer than he expected, considering. It sets him on edge immediately.

“Has something happened?” he asks.

Mother hums. It almost sounds like the purr of a cat sidhe. “How like your father you are,” she murmurs. Damian does not flinch. He pretends he doesn’t feel something when she mentions him and ignores the stirring deep in his chest. “The raiding party has returned. I was to inform you of your required attendance at your grandfather’s council to greet them and our guests within the hour.”

Guests? The raiding party? Surely they have not returned already?

“Of course, Mother.” When she does not say anything more, he assumes dismissal and moves around her, neck prickling as he passes.

“A moment, Damian,” Mother says suddenly, stopping him in his tracks. “I hear tell you have taken a prisoner. A servant.”

“I have,” Damian says.

Her gaze roves over the corridor. “Where is he?”

Damian’s heartbeat falters in his chest. “Elsewhere,” he lies smoothly. His fingers flick, and faint marionette strings of shadow trail from the tips. “He displeased me. I have Commanded him to help scrub chamber pots.”

Mother’s lips twist into a small frown. “You left him unattended.”

“His magic is negligible,” Damian says, scowling. “He has exhibited some regenerative ability but little else.”

“I hear otherwise from the Guards of the southwestern tower.”

Damian’s scowl twists further in displeasure, and he crosses his arms. “He is Bound. Do you have so little faith in _my_ abilities, Mother?”

Spiderwebs of unease spin their way down his spine as Mother stares at him, as if hunting for the lie. She approaches slowly and rests her cool hands on his shoulders, brushing her fingers soothingly across his upper back. Despite himself, Damian relaxes, tension draining from his body_. _Her shadows caress his own, recognizing them as part of her.

“Of course not, my son,” Mother assures. “Forgive me. A mother worries.”

_A lie, _his instincts hiss, even as he surrenders into the comfort of her voice.

“As I’m sure your Sundancer’s mother might, too. He may be missed, Damian.”

“He won’t be,” Damian hears himself say. “He is nobody. An orphan playing hero at our gates.

“I have known plenty of orphans who, once nobody, have become somebody, my son.”

Green demonfire dances in the depths of her eyes, captivating and alluring. Damian dares not blink. “I assure you, Mother,” he says.

Eventually, Mother’s hands slip from his shoulders. He feels the loss like an old wound. “One hour, Damian,” she reminds him.

He blinks. One hour. Yes. The raiding party. There is a meeting to attend. “Yes, Mother.”

Mother disappears around the bend of the corridor, leaving Damian alone. He reorients himself—he can’t quite remember what it is he was meant to be doing, but his stomach rumbles helpfully, a reminder he can’t deny—and he is about to head his own way when Jon slides out from between the folds of the basilisk tapestries.

“What were you _doing _in there?” Damian asks, giving Jon a weird look.

Jon flinches. He is shivering with something beyond cold, frightened eyes tracing the path his mother took. He is pale, so pale he nearly glows in the firelight, and the shadows it casts across his face are haunting. Damian doesn’t like how they make him feel.

After a moment longer, Jon shakes himself, and Damian is distantly relieved to see some color return to his face. There’s fire in his eyes when he faces Damian. “You pushed me. Remember?”

No. No, he doesn’t.

His gut churns.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Damian says with forced flippancy. He begins to turn away. “Why would I do such a thing?”

Jon’s hand catches his arm, stopping him. Damian looks down, at his Jon's hand, wrist enveloped in a magic-suppressing band, and then across the hallway, where Jon had been previously standing a split second earlier.

He is unsurprised. Why is he unsurprised?

Damian’s head is spinning, mind running as slow as molasses. “Careful, Jon,” he warns in a low tone. He isn’t sure what possesses him to say it, but he senses it is of the utmost importance to state. “Not all shadows keep secrets.”

Jon releases his hold on Damian’s arm. “You lied to your mother for me,” he says.

For some reason, Jon’s piercing eyes are more powerful than his mother’s could ever be. They probe him, challenge him, questing for something Damian isn’t sure he can give. A misplaced sense of guilt and frustration rises within him, and he can’t speak, words lodging and sticking in his throat.

“Damian,” Jon whispers. Damian’s nostrils flare at the implied disrespect, at the assumed familiarity. No servant has any right to call him by name. It is a breach of—

“Damian,” Jon says again, more forcefully. “Focus. Can you tell me why you did that?”

Damian’s eyes begin to sting, unbidden emotion—more than he can handle—climbing up his chest, breaking through the blanket of comfort his mother left behind.

He smothers it down before it can overtake him. He cannot afford another headache now. “What does it matter?” he snaps.

Jon’s face tells Damian it _does _matter. It matters a lot.

“Now come,” Damian orders. “I want something to eat before the meeting.”

He turns his back, and each step he takes away from Jon’s question feels like a betrayal of unparalleled proportions.

* * *

“Have you always lived here? In this castle?” Jon asks once.

“Of course,” responds Damian immediately, even though it feels like another lie.

Even though it frightens him that, when faced with that question, suspecting there is a different answer dangling before his eyes, this castle _is_ all he knows.

Because he also knows there’s _more_.

_Something isn’t right._

* * *

Grandfather’s council chambers are empty when Damian arrives.

The massive dragonbone chandelier overhanging the charred table is eternally lit with hundreds of candles. Draped from the twisted curves of bone are strands of fine dragon scales, ranging from the palest hues of silver to the deepest of emerald. The candlelight reflects off the iridescent scales, throwing additional glimmers of color against the black bone.

The chandelier is not the only ornament decorating the spacious room. Grandfather’s throne, which sits on a platform overseeing the large table in the center of the room, is wrought of dragonbone as well, cushioned in black velvet and studded with onyx and emerald gemstones. Pillars of jade stand sentry around the room, interspersed between archways encrusted with glazed tile mosaics.

It would be an intimidatingly beautiful room were it not so...

Cold. Clinical.

Damian feels exposed in the open, empty area. He does not like that he is the first one here. A shudder rolls down his spine as he crosses the room, footsteps echoing, and takes his usual seat near the head of the table at the foot of Grandfather’s throne.

Fortunately, Damian does not have to wait long. Grandfather sweeps in, Mother at his heel. Damian rises again at their entrance, bowing his head. The shadows in the room, expectant and eager, shiver and dance as they pass, drawn to their power. Damian himself feels the anticipation in the room, too, and his blood sings with it.

Mother takes her seat beside Damian, and Grandfather settles himself in his throne, throwing one leg over the other and steepling his fingers. He is pleased about something. Damian can sense it.

He knows better than to ask without being given permission to speak, yet even still, Damian catches himself, biting his tongue as the question rises to his lips. He fights the urge to rub his forehead and scowls inwardly at his impulsivity.

What is _wrong _with him? He’s been trained to be better than his impulses.

_Trained, _he realizes. _Not raised._

The distinction makes him uncomfortable, and in the blink of an eye, the anticipation in the room becomes stale. Not for the first time in recent weeks, Damian’s heart begins to race, a cold sweat breaking across his entire body.

_Something isn’t right_.

To the Guards who stand at the open chamber doors, Grandfather says, “Summon them.”

Mother attempts to brush a hand across Damian’s shoulders, but he shifts away from her on instinct. She does not appear offended. More amused than anything, it seems, if her little joke to Grandfather means anything. She seems to be very familiar with Damian’s tendency to deny her when he is in public, as a show that he is older, stronger, and more independent than his physical age implies.

Grandfather says something in response, about strength and dedication and poise and appearances, but Damian isn’t listening. His grandfather’s pride and approval does not comfort. It only makes the room feel larger and colder.

_Something isn’t right_.

Damian loses his sense of time and place. There is movement, flickers of light, blurs of color as the rest of Grandfather’s council arrives. He sees the swirl of the double-agent Lex Luthor’s distinctive purple robes, the oiled glint of the Tidesinger Orm’s scaled armor; hears the rasping voice of the Shifter who goes only by the moniker Cheetah, the high cackling of the Undead clown. He vaguely recognizes and sees many more—the Sundancer Sinestro, the Mindforger Braniac, the Skywriter Thawne.

_Something isn’t right_.

Never...never has Damian seen so many of the Demon’s Head’s allies in one place. Some, he did not realize were allies in the first place.

A few of them give him indescribable glowers of open hatred when they see him. Some of them look surprised. Others whisper their discontent. Some hiss and open their mouths to complain.

Grandfather and Mother’s glares put all the dissenters to rest. Their shadows quake, slinking around chairs and soothing troubled minds, deflecting their attention from Damian and whispering, _He’s ours. He’s ours. _

Damian, however, shakes their calming whispers and takes the others’ reaction to his presence exactly for what it is.

It is confirmation. Validation.

_He shouldn’t be here._

_Because he does not belong_.

Conversation begins to buzz around him, droning like pixie wings in his ears, but he feels apart from it all. He tries to swallow over the intermittent nausea dizzying enough to send him to his knees. He forces himself to focus, to take note.

He needs to know what’s happening.

They talk, but words enter one ear and exit the other. It takes longer than it should for Damian to realize that this “raiding party” was never compromised of any of the demons in Grandfather’s League of Shadows.

The “raiding party” was compromised of some of the most powerful magicians and beings to walk the land.

Grandfather’s ideals and power extends far further than Damian had ever realized—than the _Resistance _had ever realized—and that becomes even more apparent when Luthor presents a simple chest to Grandfather and pops the lid.

A hush falls over the room, but the droning in Damian’s ears becomes a roar.

Nestled within the folds of fabric inside the chest is a dragon egg.

A _dragon egg_.

Damian’s breath catches in his throat, unbidden tears rising to his eyes. The egg’s majesty, its red color rippling like liquid fire with every slight movement, is enough to inspire awe, but its mere presence has a far greater significance. Dragons are rare—rarer than gryffins, than unicorns, even—having been hunted nearly to extinction. There are an estimated three dozen left in the wild, and by all accounts, fewer than half of them are female. Eggs are even more rare, as female dragons are notoriously prideful and selective when it comes to their mates. Male dragons must prove themselves, if not in feats of magic than in feats of love, loyalty, or blood.

Dragons mate for life, after all, and if their magic is not compatible...

Well, needless to say, dragon eggs are minor miracles, and their magic is said to be the purest, and most potent, in the land.

Damian’s never seen a dragon, but he’s _always_ wanted to. Dreamed of it, even. Depictions in manuscripts and illustrations in books are not enough to capture their true splendor and grace, he’s sure.

To see with his own eyes...

He leans forward to get a closer look, feeling light on his feet, as though he could take off at a moment’s notice into the air. Facts and figures about dragons’ dens, powers, and diet tumble through his mind, fitting into slots he hadn’t realized were empty.

He wants to share his wonder, his knowledge, his excitement. He turns.

And he notices the look on Grandfather’s face, the triumphant and hungry gleam in his eyes. A menacing thrill has possessed the room, and the Joker breaks the silence by shrieking a manic laugh.

Damian crash lands, horrified understanding slamming into him with all the force of a rampaging troll.

_No_.

“How long has it been away from its mother?”

His abrupt question cuts through the underlying ardor in the room, drawing all attention to him. The Joker has stopped laughing, and Damian affects an expression similar to that of his grandfather’s. He will not apologize for speaking out of turn. He will not falter now, not even with the stares of the most dangerous people in the world zeroed in on him.

He needs to know.

And he _will_ know.

He is a spoilt, sheltered prince, after all. Mother has made it so, hasn’t she?

_That is not me_.

Rage, whip sharp and fiery, consumes him, flashing like lightning. He has the odd sensation of swaying, even though his muscles are frozen stiff. Pain ricochets between his eyes, and he wants to _scream_. 

Mother is watching him with a reproachful frown. He represses the urge to lunge for her, to challenge her and demand answers there and now. Because now that he realizes it, he can’t deny it—her magic’s invasive, heavy presence like a burial cloak hanging on his shoulders.

_It is her. She’s the reason._

_She's the reason everything is wrong_.

“My grandson asks an excellent question,” Ra’s al Ghul says in a silky voice, reminding Damian exactly where he is and who he is with. “Dragon eggs lose their potency the longer they are away from their kin. Even with Sundancer magic to keep it warm, it is only a matter of time before its power is a fraction of what it could be.”

That is not why Damian wanted to know. He inclines his chin in agreement, as though that is exactly the reason, and does not avoid a single gaze.

“The Bat and his gaggle interfered with retrieval,” Luthor admits. A shock sparks through Damian’s system at the mention of the Bat, but before he can absorb the meaning of it, Luthor continues, “But from my calculations, there is enough magic left to harness. Enough for our plans.”

Plans? Damian’s gut sinks to the floor. What _plans? _What kind of _plans_ would require the untapped potential of a _dragon egg_? 

The answer to that is simple: these are not plans any sane person would want to see come to fruition. 

Damian strains to remember if he overheard what they intend to do. He has vague recollections of another meeting occurring some time ago, but his memory of the details is full of holes. He...hadn’t paid attention, had he? Or if he had...

“How _long_, Luthor?” Grandfather asks again.

“Two days,” Luthor says.

Whatever hope Damian may have harbored plummets immediately into despair. The noise in his head escalates into a keening wail. His stomach flips, the contents threatening to upend.

“Then we do not have time to waste.”

_No_, Damian thinks, beyond the waterfall of pain in his head, over the rush of imagined noise in his ears, _we don’t_.

For the longer an egg is away from its parents...the closer it is to death.

* * *

_“Damian, don’t!”_

_A growl. A crash of thunder overhead. Bursts of light and shouts in the night._

_“You can’t do this!”_

“Don’t _do this!”_

_Mother’s sharp smile. A heeled boot grinding a Shifter’s wolfish face into the dirt. Grandfather’s hand at the throat of a young faeling, the other buried into another’s hair. Swirls of shadow sparking and zapping against a weakening shield of anti-magic. _

No.

_Bodies and blood on the ground, electricity in the air, fingers digging into his arm. Eyes of sky latched onto him. Voices rent with panic, with fear and desperation. Hearts breaking into pieces. _

I can stop this.

_“Damian, no!”_

Take me instead.

_“No! Not like this! Not for—!_”

_Mother’s growing grin. The victory in Grandfather’s eyes._

I submit.

_“DAMI—"_

* * *

Damian slams open the doors to his chambers. Jon isn’t startled in the least. His expression is one set in stone, determined and as unflinching as it had been the day he stormed one of the watch towers and gotten himself captured.

_Gorgon’s teeth, _Damian curses to himself. Jon’s a new (old?) complication Damian can’t _deal with _right now.

“You should _never _have come here, Jon,” Damian spits as the doors crash closed behind him. “What were you _thinking_? Do you have any idea what could have happened if they found out who you were? What _I _could have done to you without even knowing it?”

Jon’s hopeful smile brightens his whole face. “You remember.”

“No,” Damian grits out from between his teeth. “Yes,” he amends after a moment of thought. “I don’t know.” He supposes he remembers enough, but there are gaps too large for him to bridge, memories that slip from his grasp like spiderfairy silk. Names and places are out of reach, and everything blurs like water-logged ink.

But his will? His conscience? Those are not so easily bound by Mother’s spellwork. Her magic cannot deny him that which Father gifted him.

Father. The Bat. _And his gaggle, _Luthor had said.

Damian’s chest swells with a long-forgotten sensation, and it nearly overwhelms him. They’re still out there. They’re fighting. They’re _okay_.

_It wasn’t for naught._

“Damian?” Jon’s voice sounds a little panicked. His hands flutter in Damian’s vision, and Damian understands he's on the floor. He must have stumbled. How embarrassing.

“Rao,” Jon cusses. “I didn’t realize...I mean, your brothers warned me about Talia, and that I might not be able to do much until we could extract you, but trust me, we’ve tried just about everything, and we couldn’t just—”

“Shut up,” Damian mumbles, swatting Jon away. “I can’t...” He closes his eyes. He can’t afford to waste time now. The shroud of his mother’s magic is still too heavy for him to lift alone.

“You’re fighting it!” Jon says eagerly. “You have been for awhile now.”

“Not _now_, Jon. We have another problem.”

Jon frowns, peering into Damian’s face, but he must not hear the _cease and desist if you know what’s good for you _in Damian’s tone because he keeps speaking. “I _really _need to get you to Tim. He’ll be able to—”

Damian exhales heavily through his nose. He supposes they _are _doing this now, after all. “How long then?” Damian interrupts.

“Three months. In total,” Jon says. “I’ve been here for two weeks.”

Three months. A brief flash of sorrow and repressed loneliness grips Damian, and a crippling hole in his heart, one his mother’s magic had previously hid, aches at the edges. Jon looks like he’s going to speak, but Damian stops him. He will mourn the time he lost later. He’ll rage over what his mother and grandfather thought they could do to him then, too. Any apologies and all processing of the pain he caused, and endured, will have to wait. 

The egg is more important than any individual right now.

“Never mind that now, Jon,” Damian says. “Did you hear what they have in the castle? At this very moment? Do you know _who _is here?”

Jon’s face falls. “Yes. I heard.”

Damian spins to his wardrobe, yanking open the doors and scrounging around. “I _have_ to retrieve that egg.”

“_We _have to retrieve that egg,” Jon amends.

“And risk revealing to them you’re no Sundancer?” Damian asks, eyebrows raising. He pulls an old satchel from the back of his drawers. It will have to do. “No. I made a promise to you and your family.” When Jon doesn’t say anything, Damian’s confidence flags. Perhaps he has read the signs wrong. He doesn’t like doubting what is real and what isn’t. All the Curses upon his mother. He may have vague recollections of choosing to come back with her, but he did not realize the consequences. His mother took more than he ever meant to give. “Didn’t I?”

Jon huffs and crosses his arms. “Of course you remember _that_. I release you from your promise. I don’t care, okay? Neither will Dad. Or Kon.”

“Jon—”

“If you had a choice between keeping our secret and keeping that egg out of the wrong hands, pick the egg. _I’m _picking the egg.”

“Fine. Fine, okay,” Damian murmurs, quickly reassessing his priorities. They don’t have time to waste arguing. “Yes, we have to save it. Return it to its nest. It’s innocent in this. It doesn’t deserve to die.”

For some reason, Damian’s agreement makes Jon laugh. The sound rings through his memories, an echo he yearns to recreate into a full song. “Wait until I tell your brothers that you finally broke through your mother’s Shadeweaving because a _baby dragon _was at risk.”

“Don’t you dare,” Damian snaps without thinking. Blurred faces and voices swim in his memory. Premature embarrassment floods his cheeks.

_I’ll never live it down._

“Ignoring the fact that a whole roomful of awful people may be intending to use its magic to end the world as we know it. Ignoring the fact you’re seeing your best friend—or, well, _knowing _me as your best friend—for the first time since you’ve been kidnapped back to this godsforsaken place. All because there’s a _baby_—”

“_Jon_.”

“There you are,” Jon says brightly. “You’re kinda in and out a bit. You with me?”

“_Yes, _Jon. Focus. Please. Or let _me _focus, at least, seeing as that’s something I often have to do for the both of us, it seems.”

“Okay, okay,” Jon snickers, looking oddly happy to be receiving insults from Damian. “I’m done teasing, promise. I assume you have a plan?”

Damian centers himself with a few deep breaths, and as his thoughts begin to settle, a plan indeed begins to form. He looks at Jon and offers a sly grin. It’s never felt so good to smile.

Jon’s grin immediately mirrors Damian’s. “Excellent,” the younger boy says. His eyes glow red, and his feet rise from the floor in a full and open display of his celestial power. He wrenches the useless suppression band from his wrist, now revealed to be prop for his act, and crumbles it between his fingers. “What first, Robin?”

The codename inspires a flood of fractured memories Damian never realized he’d missed. Sensations, mostly. Impressions. Flickers. Of bright smiles, of a rumbling voice, of freedom and warmth.

Of _home_.

Most of all, however, he recalls more of the vows he made upon leaving this place, years ago. Some, he will need to bend in order to escape without alerting his mother and grandfather. Their hubris, their trust in their magic, and their belief in the power of blood, in the power of his Vow—it blinds them to the very idea Damian would ever betray them.

He once bought into those beliefs. He once thought his mother’s blood was his most defining characteristic. How misguided he’d been. How..._narrowminded _he’d been, both before he left with Father and now again, having been bewitched into compliance by his own mother.

Well, joke’s on her. She does not _know _how powerful he truly is. None of them do.

Damian is no mere Shadeweaver. He’s his father’s son too.

And they have underestimated how much he’d grown while away from this place.

“First,” Damian says to Jon, “we have a little _fun_.”

* * *

It is ridiculously easy, in the end.

At first, they consider trying to keep Jon’s whole profile of powers as secret as possible, enabling only those that can be excused as Sundancer magic, considering that is Jon’s entire family’s cover story. Needless to say, Jon’s heat vision and strength can do plenty of damage on their own. It would be enough.

But then Damian and Jon both realize there are innumerable enemies of varying origin, faction, and magical discipline staying in this very castle, invited personally by Ra's.

Enemies, who, in retrospect, have been known to feed off chaos, to fall prey to paranoia and distrust, and perhaps most importantly, play to the tune of their own agenda.

To some, the presence of so many potentially hostile sorcerers and beings in the castle would require additional precautions. Damian and Jon, however? They saw it as an _opportunity_.

Besides, with that many of the Resistance’s enemies in one place, what better way to distract them than to turn them against one another?

Jon’s clearly reveling in the chance to let loose. Explosions and shouts are already echoing throughout the halls, dust raining on Damian from the upper floors of the castle. Cloaked in a spell of Damian’s design, Jon will be hidden from most eyes, save those of a truly powerful Mindforger or Shadeweaver, and his job is to create as much chaos as he can, as well as cast doubt amongst Grandfather’s guests.

The more chaos Jon brews, the more they’ll begin to point fingers, and the more distracted they’ll be. And if Jon and Damian are lucky, they’ll begin to fight amongst themselves and contribute to the distraction themselves.

Damian thinks they’ll be pretty lucky tonight.

He smirks as he dances effortlessly between shadows, using magic and the instinctual stealth gifted to him by his father. For the first time in months, his fangs slip from his gums. He would be embarrassed that the Hunting mindset had taken him over so completely that he can’t control them now—and as a hybrid who has no true _need _to feed, it is doubly humiliating—but it is such a relief to just..._be._

He thinks he must have spent a majority of his life hiding this part of his heritage. And for good reason, he supposes. Vampires are considered the darkest of beings by most people, regardless of origin.

(Most people are wrong).

He won’t hide who he is now, after months of being repressed and forced back into the mold his mother designed for him.

To be truthful, it is also quite amusing to see the baffled, then terrified, looks on Guards faces when they see him, fangs bared. He enjoys their fear for only a few heartbeats before he slides smoothly into their minds and distorts any memory of his presence on his way out. 

He doesn’t like doing it. He doesn’t like how _easy _it is. Never had, even before defecting to his father the first time. It is an abuse of power he cannot forgive, but in this instance...

Damian almost loses his footing when a concussive _boom _resounds from the direction of the east tower. He recovers his balance and smiles. Good. Grandfather’s rooms are there, as are Mother’s and his own. They will be most displeased at the abrupt awakening, if they hadn’t been roused already.<strike></strike>

During their quick briefing, Jon worried about splitting up. He worried there’d be too many tasked with guarding the egg—and far too many for Damian to handle alone, especially fighting Mother’s enchantments as he is. Damian, however, believed his friend’s worries were misplaced.

He knows how his grandfather operates.

There is a decoy egg somewhere in the castle, and there is certainly a supreme show of force guarding that decoy to discourage wandering hands from thieving and tentative loyalties from yielding. There may even be another fake in another part of the castle, locked behind further physical barriers. Damian can come up with a few possibilities about where those decoys may be off the top of his head.

The true egg, however, is only going to be in one place: the council chambers.

The chambers are perpetually under light guard—there are many treasures in the room itself, things that could be stolen and sold by an ambitious servant—but only three people know of the hidden compartment beneath Grandfather’s throne, warded as it is with Shadeweaving.

And Damian is one of them.

These wards are spells only an al Ghul can penetrate, spells made even easier to dismantle now that Damian is not so lost under Mother’s dark mental fog that he can’t remember he has a few other magical disciplines to fall back on, thanks to his father’s Elite parentage.

Mother and Grandfather are going to regret ever underestimating him.

Damian makes it into the chambers without fuss. Approaches the throne without anyone to stop him. It is only as he bends at the throne that a pinprick of worry poisons his confidence. What if Mother realized he was no longer fully under her power? What if they realized they could not trust him well before this moment, even with what appeared to be an excessive amount of self-assurance he was completely theirs to command?

What if the egg isn’t there at all? What if he’s just revealed the ace up his sleeve?

Too late now.

_You never know if you can fly unless you take the risk of falling (1)._

Damian does not know whom the words belong to, but he draws courage from them, crystal clear and poignant as they are in his mind. He takes the plunge, commanding the shadows lurking at his Grandfather’s throne to part, and his face breaks into a victorious smile as they hiss and shrink from the light he unconsciously begins to generate from his palms to help them on their way.

_Well done, Damian, _he hears in his distant memories.

Power thrums through him, and Damian’s fingers immediately find the latch underneath the seat. After adding an extra push of magic, he holds his breath as the compartment unfolds, Earthwelder-designed locks and gears _click_ing deep within the throne.

“Praise Dua,” Damian breathes, reaching toward the bright red dragon egg.

The egg pulses and hums beneath his fingers even before Damian touches it. When Damian finally makes contact, it projects its song directly into his mind, and Damian inhales a sharp breath, captivated by the magic of its haunting melody.

It’s mourning, Damian realizes, tears stinging his eyes. It knows it’s not where it belongs.

_Like me_.

“Let’s go home, little one,” Damian whispers as he wraps the egg into the bag at his side. His fingers continue to glow as he gives the egg one last comforting touch, and as his simple Sundancer spell transfers to the egg, he swears he senses an alteration in the key of its inner song. 

Hoisting the bag on his shoulder, Damian calls to Jon, knowing his friend will hear. “Time to go,” he adds aloud. “The egg is—”

There’s a rush of air, and Jon is standing before him, hair windblown and eyes wild with glee. “You should have _heard _the curses your mother was spitting when I left her. I’m sure they’ll linger in the halls for centuries.”

Damian goes cold for a moment at the mention of his mother, concerned Jon was seen and overtaken, but his friend’s joy is infectious, and Damian can sense none of Mother’s magic on him. He shakes the paranoia.

“How much time do we have?”

“Plenty,” Jon says with utter conviction. “Ra’s has gotten word the Bat is in the castle. Somehow. He would be on the prowl, had the Joker and half a dozen others not heard as well. He’s occupied, needless to say.”

Damian finally grins, releasing a bark of laughter. “It worked like a charm, then.”

Jon beams and grabs Damian under the arms, lifting both of them into the air. The abrupt disappearance of gravity isn't nearly as disorienting as Damian expected it to be. “Did you have any doubt?”

Damian hums a noncommittal sound as he reweaves his cloaking spell to extend over the both of them. He knows better to underestimate his mother and grandfather the way they have him, but that he could anticipate their reactions, as well as use their pride against them...

The great family of al Ghul, huh? He’s disappointed, almost.

“Then let’s get out of here,” Damian says. “The egg only has so much time.”

Jon ascends, saying, “Rao, I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

The al Ghul compound is warded against every and all types of magic imaginable. It is renowned for being impenetrable. The Walls themselves are the weakest defense the compound has, especially in comparison to that which protects the castle itself. The Demon’s Head accounted for numerous possibilities, including magics current and long since dead.

He did not, however, account for celestials. And who would? Use additional manpower, time, and magic to research and then enact successful defenses against beings who originate from lands beyond the moons? Beings that Ra’s, for all his centuries of life, has never seen himself?

Preposterous.

Celestials are _myths_, after all.

Jon whoops as they speed away from the castle. Damian feeds off the thrill of their shared adrenaline, of the air rushing into his lungs. Jon’s flying so fast, a slew of stinging tears cut across Damian's cheeks and dampen the hair at his temples, but he can’t care less. The further they go, the lighter he feels, and the lighter he feels...

A howl rises on the wind, and Damian recognizes it, its specific pitch and tone reverberating through his chest. Jon must recognize it, too, because he is already angling in its direction. They are already near the edge of the Teneburum Desert, dry grasses and shrubs beginning to replace that of endless grey sand. There is no cover out here, the land nearly as inhospitable as that of the desert.

And certainly not the preferred habitat for a dragon.

It occurs to Damian, then, that he has no idea where the dragon egg’s nest is.

He tries to shout to Jon, but before his words are registered, Jon begins to descend.

“What are you doing?” Damian yells, pushing against his friend.

Jon doesn’t respond. In fact, he descends all the faster, the abrupt drop leaving Damian’s stomach hanging somewhere above them before being wrenched along.

“Jon!” Damian scolds the moment their feet hit the ground. He staggers a little upon leaving Jon’s hold and turns in a slow circle to get a clearer picture of where they are. “We can’t possibly stop here. We’re completely exposed. How could you—?”

“Thank the Great Mother She-Wolf,” interrupts an amused voice. Damian spins and freezes in place when he finds slanted blue eyes and a scarred face beaming at him. A young man slides out from amongst the dry reeds, barely a whisper of noise from the disturbed foliage following him. The disquieting dichotomy of relief, recognition, and unease Damian feels in the man’s presence confuses him, and he falters in place, fighting the urge to take a step back as the man approaches.

Something's wrong with the man, Damian can _feel _it, and some primal instinct is telling him to run, to _get away_.

Jon, however, is completely at ease.

Damian holds his ground and squints at the man. He...he knows this man. His low voice...his lopsided smirk...

_Mother’s sharp smile. A heeled boot grinding a Shifter’s wolfish face into the dirt._

“...Jason?” Damian chokes out.

Jason’s toothy grin broadens. “Glad to see you’re none the worse for wear, gremlin. You realize how many years you knocked off our lifespans with the stunt you pulled?”

Damian’s lips curl at the nickname, but before he can retort—before he can complain that this banter is a _waste of time_—the man’s nose has wrinkled, and a deep snarl rumbles through his chest. “You reek of dark magic, kid.” His gaze darts to Jon, his expression twisted in sudden anger. His odd, sick magic fluctuates around him, tied to his emotion. “Talia?”

“Yeah,” Jon says simply, unintimidated. “He’s fought off a lot of her influence, but he’s...well.” He shrugs. “I don’t think he remembers everything. Where’s Tim?”

As much as Damian wishes he _did_ remember everything, he doesn’t care to meet this Tim or anyone else. “We can’t delay here!” he exclaims.

“Yeah, no,” Jason says. “You stay right there with Jon. You’re compromised, and you’re in no position to argue.”

“We have to return the egg!”

Jason goes still as death, foot half-raised in the air. “_What?_” he growls in a horror-laced whisper. “It ended up with _Ra’s_? You have it?”

“You know where its nest is?” Damian shoots back, clutching the bag at his side.

Jon opens his mouth, but Jason stops him with a look. “Damian’s right. Stories and reunions later. This is more important. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

He turns on his heel and disappears into the tall grass, ignoring Damian’s call of _wait! _

When Jason doesn’t return immediately, Damian turns on his heel and releases a small scream of frustration under his breath, digging the heel of his palm into his eyes. They can’t afford to _delay_, and there’s nothing—_nothing_—more imperative than getting this dragon egg back where it belongs.

It is too precious to lose.

“They have the information, I think, Dami,” Jon says, grabbing his arm. “Calm down. We have to get you back to normal, too. We don’t know exactly _what _enchantments your mother has on you, and I’m sure you don’t want anything getting back to Ra’s about where the dragons are, do you?”

“No,” Damian spits. “But—”

Jason’s return is decidedly less quiet than his initial appearance. That is most likely due to the fact he has two companions with him.

One of them has blue eyes of sky, and he moves like magic itself. The other is unreadable, poised, and Damian feels an automatic twinge of envy at the sight of him.

No. Not envy. Not any longer. That envy has, over time, transformed into respect.

_Grandfather’s hand at the throat of a young faeling, the other buried into another’s hair..._

“Dami!” the sky-eyed young man calls. He rushes forward like a whisper of breeze and gathers him into a bone-crushing hug. He’s babbling in Damian’s ear, words of comfort and love and things Damian is not entirely sure he’s comfortable with because this man is sort of a stranger but also _not. _He’s... saying things Damian thinks he _needs _to hear. Despite himself, he melts into the warmth of the man’s embrace, muscles quaking with the sudden release of stress.

_Richard_. Damian thinks he's missed this one most. 

From over Richard’s shoulder, Damian sees the other faeling is watching them hug with a shrewd expression, fingers twitching awkwardly at his side.

“Get off him, Dick,” Jason says suddenly. “Let Tim work his magic.”

The famed Tim snorts. “Magic,” he repeats. “Funny.”

Richard reluctantly pulls away, allowing Timothy to approach. “What’s the verdict, Tim?” the elder asks.

Damian draws himself up, hackles rising, but Timothy is not grimacing _at _him. His gaze is fixated on something _beyond _Damian. “Some pretty deeply rooted gargoyle-shit.” To Damian, he asks, “May I?”

Richard pushes Damian forward in response, and Timothy places his hands on Damian’s shoulders. Immediately, Damian’s eyes slide closed, and he quakes as a gaping hole, an unfathomable chasm of _emptiness_, opens between them.

_Anti-magic_, Damian recalls with awe. Often mistaken as _non-_magic and chronically misunderstood by the Elite, who can't imagine a life without magic. Rare beyond measure. More invaluable than any of the disciplines alone.

Antiwielders don’t create their own magic. They can’t. Instead, they are _immune _to it. They can redirect others’ magic, absorb it, break it down to its base components.

Eradicate it.

It is why Ra’s al Ghul is so obsessed with Timothy.

Why he wants to _possess _him.

Tim’s power sinks into Damian’s soul, cleansing and unraveling tainted spells as it goes, and Damian gasps when, with a final tug, memories burst from their confines. It’s as though a key has turned, a once locked door flying open. 

Damian’s eyes fly open. He can barely see. Tears stream down his cheeks. “Oh.”

“You back with us?” Jon asks.

“I...” Damian wipes his face. He is crying openly. Sobbing, really. He tilts his head back, struggling to get himself under control, but it’s impossible. He feels _reborn. _Colors are brighter, the sunlight warmer and softer, kissing his skin. The air he breathes is sweeter, so much so he inhales until his lungs can’t hold any more. Even his magic, he realizes, had still been under lock and key, and now the stream of power is free of muck and debris. It runs freely, _his _once more_._

“Nice job, Tim,” Jason says drily. “You broke him. Have fun explaining that to Bruce.”

“Sorry!” Timothy exclaims. “Sorry, Damian. I really did try to be gentle.”

Damian shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No, it’s okay. I’m...I’m okay.” His lips twitch into a smile. He feels wrung dry, emotion he’d forgotten even existed pummeling his defenses into pig slop, but he’s...Gods, he feels more like himself than he can remember feeling in a long time. “I’m fine now.”

Timothy surveys Damian up and down and then asks Richard, “He lying?”

“Nope,” Richard says, popping the _p. _

“Good.” Timothy turns back to Damian. “Now that that’s taken care of—”

Damian is pathetically unprepared for the smack Timothy delivers to his head. In his defense, he’s still reeling from the return of his full mental functionality and emotional capacity. “Timothy!” he exclaims, hand flying to the back of his head. “What in the hells was that for?”

“_Never _offer yourself up in exchange for me again,” Timothy says. “For any of us. Never again, Damian. Do you understand me?”

Damian scowls and rubs his head. “I wasn’t about to let my grandfather take you.” He looks between the three of them. “Any of you.”

“You’re not any more or less valuable than the rest of us,” Richard says gently. His tone does not quite soften the pain and rage in his eyes. “But you _are _the baby, Damian. We’re your older brothers. When you were taken...”

Timothy takes over for Richard when their eldest brother’s voice gives out. “We’re family, Damian.”

“Pack,” Jason amends, and Damian’s heart surges in his throat. The terms _pack_ and _family_ are interchangeable for a lot of people, but Shifters like Jason tend to rank _pack_ ties above that of family ties. “We protect each other. We’re Waynes. Our job isn’t to sacrifice ourselves for each other. It’s to find _another way_. There’s always another way.”

Coming from Jason, a Shifter Turned and then brought back as Undead, his magic semi-corrupt and undefinable by all known disciplines, who has done nothing but live and breathe the essence of those words his entire life, Damian can’t help but feel suitably chastised.

“I won’t apologize for doing what I thought was right,” Damian says. “Or for what came of it." His information about who appeared at Grandfather's council today will give the Resistance a much-needed edge in the war, and that's not to mention the service he is doing the entire world by saving this dragon egg from abuse and certain death. "But I _am _sorry it happened the way it did.”

“We all are,” Richard says. 

“Should there be a next time, however,” Damian adds, “don’t pull anything this _moronic_ again. I cannot believe this plan of yours was ever authorized by Father.” To Jon, he says, “Or by yours.”

“It wasn’t,” Richard and Jason say in sync.

"Bruce is going to kill us all," Timothy supplies cheerfully. 

Damian rolls his eyes. He supposes he assumed that much, even when bewitched. “Jon was _lucky_. We were _both _lucky to escape with the egg.” The light and jovial atmosphere dissipates in an instant, and Damian rifles through his bag to check on the egg. It appears unharmed. “We will have much to discuss when we are back with Father. But for now, time is of the essence. Please give me some good news.”

Everyone looks immediately looks at Richard. His sylph blood gives him some Skywriter abilities. More powerful Skywriters command the skies, create storms and droughts, run at the speed of light, ride the winds and fly, but Richard is gifted with more subtle magic, most of which he uses to make art out of motion, enhance his stealth and sense of direction, and—most importantly—gather intelligence.

The winds like to tell him things. They always have. Most of the time they tell him frivolous things, but when he asks nicely—and sometimes without any prompting—they carry important tidings, too. 

Richard cocks his head, listening.

“She didn’t travel far,” Richard says finally. “She’s injured from the raid and is aware we’ve deployed agents to help her look for the egg. Her mate is hunting, too. He’s...Oh, dear. I think he just burnt down a dryad village. That’s not good. Poison Ivy's going to be on the warpath.”

“Where?” Jon asks.

“The village? Oh, no, sorry. The mother. She is in Sola. Nearly eighty leagues to the west.”

“Near Gotham,” Damian says.

Richard nods. “Go now with Jon. Do you need any backup? Jason can probably keep up with you.”

“I could use a run,” Jason agrees casually.

Damian shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. I’d rather someone stays behind and lays a false trail in the event my grandfather and mother send one of their allies to track me and Jon. Jason would be best suited for that task.”

Richard takes the suggestion in stride, acknowledging the merit in Damian’s concern. “I doubt it, considering your cloaking spell, but I suppose we can’t be too careful. Some Skywriters may be able to pick up hints of your flight from the winds. And others can pick up the scent here. We’ll burn this hideout, then, and follow behind. Catch Bruce and Clark up to speed. I’ll try to pinpoint the nest’s exact location and send you a message when I can.”

Damian doesn’t need telling twice. He’s already offering his arm to Jon. “Godspeed.”

“Damian? Jon?”

Damian and Jon both hesitate. Damian’s three brothers stand in a line, and it’s Timothy who says what’s clearly on their minds. “You both did good.”

He would argue that maybe Timothy should hold onto his words until the egg is returned safely, but as he and Jon ascend again, a rushed blessing from Richard speeding them along the air currents, Damian accepts the praise and allows it to fill him up.

This time, he _knows_ he deserves it.

The egg is in the finest of hands now.

**Author's Note:**

> (1) a quote from Nightwing in Secret Origins Vol 2 #13
> 
> This was an amazing exercise in world-building. I don't do enough of it, and though I'm sure it's not perfect (I ended up telling a lot more showing, I think), I had so much fun. I'll likely be back to play again. ;)


End file.
